


Hear Us Roar

by FunkyinFishnet



Category: Spartacus Series (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, F/M, Gangsters, Guns, Instant Attraction, M/M, Making Out, Male Slash, Secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-15
Updated: 2012-11-15
Packaged: 2017-11-18 18:05:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/563896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FunkyinFishnet/pseuds/FunkyinFishnet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1920s America. Cops, corrupt or otherwise, and gangsters alike want Spartacus and his notorious gang dead. Mira keeps them out of the firing line while Agron meets a barman who stays on his mind and grabs his heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hear Us Roar

 

 

No one was sparing bullets. Agron cursed as flecks of brickwork flew up into his face. This was the promised ‘clear run’? He could hear Crixus muttering furiously nearby. For once they agreed; this wasn’t a doozy and they hadn’t brought nearly enough party favors to match the firing squad opposing them. Of course if the crooked cops would kindly down tools, then Agron was pretty fucking certain that he, Crixus, and Spartacus would be able to have some bloody fun with their fists and escape with only a couple of holes in their suits.

 

Speaking of their fearless leader, Spartacus was crouched behind a beat-up car, squeezing off shots and looking like a corked bottle about to go off. He looked about as mad as Agron felt too. Good. Whoever had fed them that dummy line was going to be picking up their own teeth by the end of the night. Of course a plan for how to get out of the firing line first would be swell.

 

There was a sharp whistle. Someone was calling off the dogs. Agron checked his pistol – only a couple of rounds left. Tucking the piece back into his shoulder holster, he slid a glance at Crixus who nodded. Coast was clear and there were the sharp high-heeled footsteps that heralded their savior.

 

“I can’t leave you boys alone for five minutes…..”

 

Agron grinned as he ducked out from behind the wall. Never had the phrase ‘a sight for sore eyes’ been so appropriate. Pistol drawn, Mira didn’t have a hair out of place and her lipstick wasn’t even smudged. The lines around Spartacus’s eyes softened as he thanked her. Mira visibly melted an inch. They were like one of those movies, all longing looks but no sound. It was no way to live.

 

Mira slipped the pistol into her beaded purse. “Called in a false alarm. Donar’s secured the next safe house.”

 

His hat was missing. Agron looked around sharply and quickly snatched it up, fingers briefly caressing the hatband. If he could keep anything whole, it would be one of the few pieces of his brother that he still had left.

 

“I need a drink,” he announced.

 

“Several,” agreed Crixus.

 

Spartacus nodded and offered Mira his arm. Agron looked around the alley a final time. Three bodies had hit the ground. He spat. There should always be more. Next time, he hoped to make that happen personally. It was what his hands were trained for. The steam was rising and there was a flash of white amongst the brickwork opposite. Agron narrowed his eyes and looked again, but if there had been anything or anyone there, they were gone now.

 

He definitely needed a drink.

 

*

 

Lucius’s was the only place to go. It was the only speakeasy they’d be safe in. For a start, it moved every few days and Lucius kept it tight, only friends and people he valued allowed in. Sure, rats were likely to slip through the cracks now and then but Lucius was happy to deal with them himself. His kitchen knives didn’t just cut limes.

 

There were only a few stragglers at tables, and a cigarette girl expertly walking Mira’s beat through the chair legs. Something sweet and sorrowful was being played on the piano by a slip of a girl in a deep green dress, her voice intertwining with the music like a good burn of whiskey. She was just Duro’s type.

 

Crixus left to find Naevia backstage, taking a bottle with him. She must have already performed tonight. Spartacus and Mira got drawn into serious talk with Lucius. Agron headed straight to the bar. A figure was bent over the sink at the back until Agron thumped the bartop.

 

“Drought needs fixing here.”

 

The barman turned and Agron felt his throat tighten. Jesus. He was having a vision. It had to be. The man’s white shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing intriguing dark skin, and his pants fitted in all the right places. His long hair was waxed smooth and tied back, giving Agron a full view of a beautifully-boned face, laughing eyes, and a spectacular mouth. Agron stared, feeling a sudden and very different kind of thirst. Usually he had to pay to get a view like that. And he’d never before set eyes on somebody who made every bone in his body jump to attention. The barman smiled and looked Agron up and down appreciatively in return. Agron smirked - good to know he was the guy’s type too.

 

The barman poured something stiff into a glass and slid it across the bar. It was exactly what Agron had been looking for and he hadn’t had to say a word. Impressive. He kept his eyes locked on the barman as he drank, the alcohol burning down his throat. A perfectly appropriate feeling. Agron usually only felt this way when handing out punches. That was a fact to ponder.

 

He pushed money onto the bar. “Knock yourself out.”

 

The barman’s mouth quirked into a smile and he nodded his thanks, pouring himself a glass. Agron watched admiringly as the barman took a sip – the tremble of his throat when swallowing, how he licked his lips. He wanted to remember it all. The barman’s gaze hadn’t left him either. It seemed Agron wasn’t the only one making memories.

 

They could make some more tonight.

 

Agron cleared his throat, ravenous and hot under his shirt at the idea. The way their lives worked, he’d almost certainly not get another chance with this gorgeous man who called up such powerful feelings in him. He had to take the opportunity while he had it, especially since it had been a real long time since he’d been this desperate for a night without sleep. Of course, now his throat felt clogged and dry with no words springing up to help him. He had the sudden feeling that this was how Spartacus and Mira felt whenever they looked at each other. The thought wasn’t comforting.

 

“So……”

 

The barman smirked a little in the corner of his mouth when Agron wasn’t able to squeeze any more words out. They’d all shriveled in the face of such sharp knockout beauty. Agron glared playfully back.

 

“You’re dangerous.”

 

“Something tells me you like dangerous.”

 

“Ask Lucius.”

 

It was the clearest signal that Agron could give. They couldn’t really say anything personal, no names or information. They’d have to be vague and heavy with meaning. The barman nodded his understanding and reached for his glass with a flick of his eyebrow. Their glasses were pressed together. Agron smirked and reached too, forcing welcome inescapable contact between their hands. The heat only increased. Agron’s fingers stroked against his, stoking the flames. The barman’s breath caught. Agron smiled, they were both in this heat and madness together.

 

There was a hum nearby and Spartacus signaled to him. They needed to leave immediately. Damn. Agron’s heart dropped heavily and he squeezed the barman’s hand before letting go with a lot of regret. Lucius’s bar was always moving and he had a high staff turnover, for their safety and his. So combined with Agron always being on the move, it was unlikely that he’d ever see the boy again. They’d have only had tonight and now they wouldn’t even have that.

 

He felt like he was missing out on a lot.

 

The boy’s eyes burned into his back as he left.

 

*

 

Agron got his fist fight eventually. A fortnight later, Crixus threw a punch when somebody insulted Naevia – a clear tactic to cause a riot and so get a quick arrest of Spartacus’s men. Bodies started piling into view and the fight spilled outside, Agron and Spartacus knee-deep in suits eager to make them prettier. It was going to take time to get away. Mira and Naevia had immediately spirited themselves off to safety and were plotting a quick exit strategy for everyone else.

 

Agron had his back to a wall, bruised ribs, and a haymaker heading right for him, when he saw that flash of white on brickwork again. This time it was a lot closer and suddenly a hand grabbed a fistful of his shirt and yanked him sideways. The fist aiming for him crunched on brick instead and Agron found himself tucked into an unexpected sidestreet, out of harm’s way and looking at Lucius’s barman.

 

Agron shook his head, trying to clear it. He had to have been knocked stupid for this to make sense. But there was the boy, in a too-long coat over shirtsleeves, and a newsboy cap that covered his hair and shaded his face. Agron touched his arm. Yep, real. His heart sped up. During the past two weeks his thoughts had regularly circled the barman – that mouth, eyes, hands, heat – and the boy was the only thing that filled Agron’s head whenever he brought himself to completion, desperate and yearning.

 

He honestly never thought he’d see the barman again. Which begged a real important question. Agron kept a firm grip on the boy’s arm.

 

“You’re stronger than you look.” A fact that gave him chills and a lot of really interesting ideas. “Why’re you playing hero here?”

 

The barman tapped a finger to his temple. “Message from Nemetes.”

 

Agron stared at him. Message. The boy wasn’t just one of Lucius’s always-temporary barmen; he was one of Spartacus’s messengers too. Threaded through each city, they were quicker and more invisible than shadows, always folk who kept their eyes to the ground like the world was pressing down on them and they were just scratching out an existence for themselves. They never carried written messages – paper could be found or lifted by pickpockets. They carried the messages in their heads, so their identities were kept secret.

 

Agron was unwilling to let go of the boy yet. He didn’t have to examine the feeling to know why.

 

“I’ve never seen you pass on a message.”

 

“Then I’m doing my job right.”

 

Agron laughed, his hand stroking the skin he could get to. The boy smiled back, his own hand finding purchase under Agron’s coat. Brazen, but Agron appreciated that. They didn’t live in subtle times.

 

“I like you, little man.”

 

“I can tell.”

 

Their gazes locked and there was a pulse of heat between them so strong that it took Agron’s breath away. Oh, he was going to start something and really fucking finish it ‘til the heat burned them both down. But the fight was clearly getting worse and sirens weren’t gonna be far off and Mira had said she’d only need ten minutes to pull them free once she got hold of a plan. Time was against them. Of course it was.

 

So instead, in sheer desperation for just a moment more and fired by the fear of maybe not getting the chance again, Agron pulled the boy close and pressed mouth to mouth, tongue begging for access. The boy groaned and gave as good as he got. He pushed up close and let his hands and tongue roam. It felt like firecrackers went off behind Agron’s eyes and in his veins. He could get used to this feeling. He really wanted to.

 

He could imagine Duro laughing at him.

 

The boy pulled back, though stayed firmly attached hip to hip, and grinned widely, like a slice of sunlight in the dark and chaos. His breath was hot against Agron’s ear. “Call me Nasir.”

 

Nasir. Agron’s smile felt like it would fit on the moon and he’d just given his own name when someone was sent sprawling into the alley. Nasir laughed, a beautiful sound. His hands slid down Agron’s body, fingers squeezing quick and firm between his legs making Agron gasp, before pulling away. He had to get to Spartacus and deliver the message. And Agron had to finish the fight.

 

He also definitely had to get his hands on Nasir again. Maybe next time without the fists flying and the cops coming in for a late supporting role.

 

“I’ll see you later,” Nasir called over his shoulder, angling his words like he was holding a hell of a piece of bait, _care to find me if you dare?_ Then he flashed a bright brief smile and slipped away into the chaos.

 

Agron laughed long and loud and grabbed the idiot underfoot. Someone needed to take out the trash. And no cop or robber was going to stop him from oh-so-eagerly answering Nasir’s challenge. Nothing would.

 

_-the end_

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel: [Tell The Rain Not To Drop](http://archiveofourown.org/works/567872)


End file.
